


I dream of you, to wake

by griesly



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, The Dream Pack - Fandom
Genre: Abuse of Power, Drug Use, Gun Violence, Multi, UST, Underage Drinking, drinking and driving, general disregard and property damage, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griesly/pseuds/griesly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All roads in Henrietta lead to Kavinsky, and with K, there's always a party <i>after</i> the party.</p><p>Pack headcanons inspired by <b> [<a href="http://envyadams.co.vu/post/113907737642/a-softer-dream-pack-kavinsky-prokopenko-skov">X</a>]</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	I dream of you, to wake

 
    
    
     _And God stepped out on space,_
    _And he looked around and said:_
    _I’m lonely—_
    _I’ll make me a world._

\- James Weldon Johnson

 I

 

Skov was getting bored. Jiang could see it in the lines of her body, tense, bobbing one foot up and down on the long suffering carpet. A mess of curls striped blonde and brown and faintly pink hid half of her face. There was a running bet on whether or not she ever brushed it.

Skov ignored a phone call, sticking her tongue out at the display. She'd finished Proko's calculus homework an hour ago, and showed no interest in moving on to the English paper due in the morning. They were all bored, really. Tired of watching TV. Tired of playing video games until their fingers were sore. Tired of waking up.

They never tired of the pills, and Skov never tired of Kavinsky.

Crawling across the leather cushions, she climbed on top of K where he perched on the end of the sofa, hyper-aware. It was too much coke, or too much dreaming, Jiang couldn't tell. He was a perpetual motion machine, never settled. Nothing about Kavinsky was ever easy. Nothing, and everything.

She curled up against him, whispering kisses along his neck, his ear, his jawline. He wasn't paying attention, but Skov was adept at turning every eye to her advantage. She would make him pay attention. Even Jiang knew it was only a matter of time.

K's arms rose up slowly around her back, pulling her closer. She murmured happily against his skin, squirming into his lap. He looked past her, watching the television while winding the fingers of one hand into her hair. She nipped at the skin beneath his jaw and he gave a small grunt that could have meant anything. She stretched up farther, blocking his view, and he twisted sideways. Jiang noted the smirk on his face that meant he didn't give a shit about the dirt bike races on TV. He just wanted to keep Skov from getting what she wanted. She turned his face back toward hers with a hand on his cheek and kissed him, working the remote from his loose grip. She fired it over her shoulder and the television died with a satisfying snap. K gave a quiet laugh against her mouth. She'd won.

He tugged on her hair, making her work for every second of contact. This was a game at which she excelled. Skov pressed her forehead against his, smiling, and kissed him again. It was soft and lazy until it wasn't, until she bit down on his lip and pulled back, dragging the skin between her teeth.

“Yeah, sure,” Jiang called from where he sat on a counter top, helping himself to the shelves of liquor on display. Swinging his legs back and forth, he took another swig of bourbon. “Don't mind me.”

“I never do,” Skov said without turning her head, leaning back in to continue the kiss. K's phone buzzed and rattled its way across the cushion, the screen lighting up. Jiang knew the display would read just one word: ballsack. He could predict a simple message, _bitch_ , or worse, _don't make me come in there._ He'd picked up K's phone before and seen a conversation, if you could call it that, played out in single word insults. It would have been easy to be jealous, but Jiang was patient.

K was a scorched earth directive. It wouldn't take long before he came back, more triumphant than ever.

Skov scowled down at the phone and shoved it between two seats. She might have growled a little, baring her teeth. K looked away, the restlessness returning.

He stood up from the couch abruptly, carrying her along with him. She laughed and threw her head back, wrapping her legs tightly around his hips. The tiny band of elastic material she'd decided was a skirt rode up over the tops of her thighs. Her underwear was a thin strip of lace, the sort Jiang figured women only wore so someone would take them off. He'd found a pair close enough to his size once and bought them, much to the saleswoman's discomfort. They didn't stretch well, and the straps dug into his hips. No one had ever tried to take them off, but Jiang was hopeful.

Steering his mind back to the present, Jiang realized he was still staring. Skov didn't care, tossing him a wink over her shoulder. She enjoyed leaving people wanting.

She sucked on the skin where K's neck met his collarbone. Jiang admired her work, thinking of the bruise that would leave come morning. Suddenly, K turned, dumping her back in a pile on the couch. For a moment, she even bounced.

“What the fuck, asshole?” she asked, folding her knees beneath her. She was furious. “You're not leaving,” she said with forced certainty. But he was. He retrieved his phone and kissed her in a single swift movement, and then he was out the door, scraping the wall with his knuckles. “маленька сука,” she hissed, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

“We don't need him,” Jiang said casually, tossing a small rubber ball back and forth between his hands. “We can entertain ourselves.” Skov made a rude, angry noise in the back of her throat. “Or not,” Jiang replied. “You know, whatever.”

Skov glared at the empty doorway before turning and marching toward the counter. She sighed heavily, stretching out a perfunctory hand to Jiang, but he didn't take it. Instead, he rested both hands on the concrete surface and levered himself back down to the floor. “Where are we going?” he asked, retrieving the baseball cap that doubled as a lampshade.

“I want to set something on fire,” Skov replied, and Jiang laughed. Skov always knew where to find a good time. Her face was set in hard, angry lines, and he knew tonight she'd light up Henrietta like a Christmas tree. No one would be able to ignore her, not even K. Of course, the police would probably show up before he did, but the night was still young. There were endless possibilities.

Skov retrieved a short fur jacket from an obscenely phallic hook on the wall. K hadn't even dreamed that one, they'd found it a store full of trashy kitsch at the mall. Wrapping the coat around her shoulders, Skov kicked game controllers and dirty dishes out of her way across the floor. They never washed anything. Jiang followed, whistling the tune to a Bulgarian pop song.

“Hey Proko!” he shouted into the strangely quiet house. “Swan?” The door to the pools opened inward, and Swan stuck his head inside, a half empty bottle of tequila in one hand. Light swam along his dark skin, dancing around a lifetime of scars. Whenever Jiang asked, Swan lied and said he'd been a clumsy kid.

“The fuck do you want?” he asked with apparent interest.

“We're gonna go burn something down, come on!” Jiang rocked on his heels, his hands jammed in his pockets. Nervous energy flooded his veins, electrifying his skin, and he bounced from one foot to the other. Swan smiled, and something in his stomach twisted, not unpleasantly.

“Proko!” Swan yelled back in the direction of the three pools that circled the backyard. Prokopenko was jumping into oncoming waves that spilled over the tiled perimeter. Swan jerked his head up sharply and Prokopenko climbed up the ladder, shaking the water from his hair like a golden retriever. Skov smiled at him indulgently through the window.

They piled into a truck parked outside, something massive and violently red, Swan at the wheel. Swan was always at the wheel. “Where to, princess?” he asked, leaning out of the window and looking back at the truck bed where she lounged with Prokopenko and two containers of gasoline.

“Surprise me,” Skov answered, already sounding bored. She hadn't bothered to find a pair of shoes, and her toenails matched her electric pink lipstick. Skov was all hard edges and bite until she wasn't, until she melted into you, her lips doing soft, amazing things across your skin. Jiang blinked, and turned away as she settled her feet in Proko's lap. No matter how long he watched the two of them, Jiang could never figure out their dynamic. If he had to take a guess, the answer would be K. The answer was almost always K.

They set off with a roar of the engine and a warbled shout from Proko in the back. Jiang could see the shadow of his fist raised high in support of their mission. He was trashed. Swan shoved the bottle of tequila into his hands, their fingers sliding against each other on the wet, curved glass. Jiang took a swig to ignore the tingling in his hands from the contact, settling into the seat with a fierce sort of determination. They didn't need K to survive, they _didn't_ , and he would go to his grave trying to prove it. They existed without him. They had their own orbit. Jiang knew they were lies the moment they scurried across his mind, but for one night, he wanted to pretend.

“Fuck, man,” he sighed, leaning his elbow out the window.

“Fuck what?” Swan asked, content to drive without a destination.

“Everything,” Jiang answered, and Swan laughed. His chest tightened at the sound. Jiang had long ago stopped trying to catalog all the different things he felt for them - his firebug, his loyal constant, his master at arms. It was all one thing in the end, four strings woven through his ribcage. There was them, and then there was _him_ , their king, at once a part of them and light years ahead. That just left Jiang, no emphasis, the joker, the standard bearer, always a good sport.

Kavinsky was a tiny monarch in a vast and uncertain world, but he ruled his kingdom with all the comfort of an iron fist. Jiang knew he would do anything to keep Skov's mind off him tonight. K would always leave her wanting, and she couldn't bear to be left.

 

 

II

 

Kavinsky opened his eyes. Prokopenko stood in front of him, glancing around as if bewildered. Rows of seats clothed in red velvet rose before him and disappeared into the darkness. He narrowed his eyes. For the first time, Kavinsky felt the yawning emptiness of the room. Cavernous, he thought. That's a 25 point word. _Score_.

Proko's eyes settled on him, slouching in his front row seat. Kavinsky stood, careful to mind the objects littering the floor. He couldn't lose his footing now. “Hey, Proko, where've you been, man? You missed all the fun!”

“Fun,” Prokopenko echoed.

“It was surreal, man,” Kavinsky assured him. It was a lie. It had been more than real, too real, life in Technicolor real. He saw it again and again, Proko's head jerking back, the spatter of blood and brains and bone decorating the seats. He knew what it was to wound, but not to kill. Not until now. The black-ringed hole in Proko's forehead gaped up at him, a mouth shouting out. Why? Why did you do it, K?

Because he thought it would be funny. Because Proko had grabbed the .45 and pressed the barrel to his head, egging him on. Because he didn't stop to think that the gun might be loaded.

“It's ok, man,” Kavinsky said, taking Proko by the arm and leading him up the gently sloping ramp. 'We can throw another party. With me, there's always another party.” He forced out a laugh.

“Tonight?” Proko asked.

“Nah, man, not tonight.” Kavinsky's steps led them ever onward in the hopes that Prokopenko wouldn't look back. “We gotta sleep sometime, right?”

“Sleep,” Prokopenko considered. “That would be nice.”

Kavinsky took a few more steps and then stopped. He dropped his arm until his thumb and forefinger made a loose circle around the other boy's wrist. _Dammit_. Turning around, he slid his fingers down and took Proko's hand, giving it a squeeze. “I think I fucked up, man.” Kavinsky stared at the hideously patterned carpet. “I mean I really, really, fucked it up good this time.”

“What did you do, K?” Proko asked. Kavinsky couldn't meet his eyes. He closed his own instead, reaching out in the dim light to grip Proko's face in both his hands. He lifted up on the balls of his feet to match Prokopenko's height and pressed their lips together, hard. For a moment, Proko didn't move, but then his lips softened against Kavinsky's and he kissed back without reserve. Kavinsky pulled away.

“I'm sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He looked back down the ramp to the floor in front of the screen standing as witness, still and silent. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, K?” Prokopenko asked, gazing down at him with all the curiosity of a child.

“Because I killed you,” Kavinsky answered, pulling the gun from his waistband. He lifted it to Prokopenko's temple and fired. “Bang,” he whispered. Death didn't make a sound. The body fell back, and he should have caught it, Kavinsky thought, he should have wanted to catch it, but he didn't. It rolled a few feet down the ramp and caught in a row of seats, the head pulling back to reveal a ruined skull. Kavinsky gazed past it to the other three that lay front and center, stacked up like colorful blocks. The first one had three arms, the second didn't even have a mouth. Maybe it was time to stop trying.

He switched the safety on and jammed the awful, silent gun into the back of his sweatpants. Pressing his fingers against his eyes, Kavinsky struggled to clear his vision. He didn't even know what time it was, what day it was. He couldn't leave until he got it right. His fingers groped his pockets until they found another small green pill. “Bottoms up,” he said to his captive audience, dry swallowing. He fell to the ground.

The trees swayed side to side, their branches clashing in a mute, black wind. Vines the color of brain matter whipped about his legs, pinning him, embracing him. He was utterly their creature as thorns tugged at his skin, ripping, tearing. He bled for the forest, and the forest bled for him, gifting him with the figure of a boy. He smiled, fearful and wonderful to behold.

Kavinsky opened his eyes.

 

III

 

She hated it here. The air was oppressive, damp. Her hair bunched up in a frizzy, uncontrollable mess every time she tried to go outside. Still, forty feet up with Jiang and Swan was better than being inside, listening to her mother laughing too loudly with her latest conquest. A queen in exile, Tatiana had begun to sample her own product just to get out of bed each morning. Skov knew she hated it here, too. The Kentucky mafia paled in comparison to the enemies they'd made before.

Back in Odesa, she had been a princess. She'd had the world at her fingertips. Anything she wished for appeared, not in a dream, but in her hand. Then the міліція barged in like filthy dogs and took everything away, took it all and left them with only their lives. They'd told her mother she should be grateful. She wasn't. Life was nothing without the comforts, the distractions, the adventures. Skov always knew her mother's business affairs weren't strictly legal, but legality was a fluid term in the Republic of Ukraine. She paid all the right people; her empire should have stood forever.

Instead, they'd fled into obscurity: Henrietta. Virginia. The United States. The ass end of nowhere. They might have been honest and just called it Hell. Even its name was a condescending diminutive. Here, they adopted a different surname, the only thing Tatiana still remembered about her father. “Skov-something,” she said dismissively, waving a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other. It was insulting, but they'd burned a lot of bridges to get here and it was a safe bet no one would be looking for Dutch immigrants dealing hillbilly heroin in the mountains of Virginia.

Here she was not a princess. Here, she remade herself in her own image. No longer Yelena by choice, but Skov, a hard consonant sound. A bark, a grunt. A bayonet. It meant nothing, and she was no one, until she was his. Until she was theirs. Until she no longer mourned.

If she happened to be fucking her mother's only real competition, not to mention a Bulgarian, well, that was her Tatiana's problem. Skov did as she liked. She always had. No one was going to take that away from her now. She'd never attended school with any discipline, and Mountain View ~~gulag~~ High was no different. When she did show up, she usually broke things until they put her on suspension. An unbelievably short girl in her year had mouthed off to her once, and she'd set her hair on fire as payback. Skov was fairly certain she'd been expelled after that.

She threw another empty bottle down onto the pavement. Jiang wound up like a baseball pitcher and hurled an empty fishbowl from between the finials. They were on the roof of the deserted science labs at Aglionby, surrounded by as many breakable things as they could carry. K and Proko had fucked off to god only knew where, and they weren't answering her texts. She'd picked up Jiang first, and then Swan, because Jiang wanted to. She didn't complain; it gave her a bigger audience.

Jiang had grinned when she opened the trunk. K never locked the doors to his house anymore.

Skov wrapped her arms around Jiang's chest from behind just to piss off Swan. She wasn't short, but he stood so much taller than her that she couldn't reach his shoulders. Skov was chronically underestimated, the sort of thin that made her look as if a good strong breeze could carry her away. One of her mother's boy toys had made the mistake of saying he could snap her right in half. She'd broken his wrist and stabbed him in the foot, much to her mother's displeasure. The memory still warmed her bones.

Swan hurled a glass unicorn past her head. Skov smiled, and squeezed tighter.

After a while, she and Jiang lay back and traced angels in the thick layer of white gravel covering the roof. Swan leaned against the small brick building that encased the stairs and watched them, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. Skov dug around in the pockets of her jacket until she found several tiny perfect spheres. She wasn't sure what color they were, which meant she couldn't know what they would do. She swallowed one anyway, holding her palm out to Jiang. He took one for Swan, too, before tossing it back himself.

Jiang got up with only a slight stumble and grabbed Swan's hand, laying the pill in his palm and folding his fingers up around it. He smiled briefly before turning away, taking off his Nationals' cap and running one hand through his hair, a little too long, a little shaggy. Skov rolled her eyes. They were pathetic. Jiang's attention shifted back to the glinting pile spilling out of grocery bags around them, and he dropped to the ground beside it. He dug out an ashtray made from pink Depression glass and held it up as a suggestion.

Skov caught Swan's wince before he could cover it up. The stupid thing was only worth a few hundred dollars, but she thought unkindly that to Swan it was probably a fortune. It was a pretty thing, and fragile, which made it all the more worth destroying.

She snatched it from Jiang's grasp and jumped up, winging it at a Mercedes in the lot below. The car alarm wailed as she hit her mark. Skov laughed when Swan grabbed them by their shirts, pulling them behind a convenient turret when the blue lights screamed. She reached out to clasp both their hands, feeling generous, but Swan slid his free with a quiet scoff. Jiang held on for a few moments more, his palms sweaty, the pill starting to take effect. She wondered what he saw; she wondered what marvels the world would show them next. Skov laughed, and laughed, until her stomach hurt and her lungs burned like a house on fire.

Time began to slow down. Skov knew she was beautiful and terrible and would never live on a shelf like one of Kavinsky's odd trinkets. She was her mother's daughter, and the Volkova empire was unbreakable. One day they would reemerge from this coward's retreat, conquer their foes and corner the market. Everything in its right place. She smiled up into the night as the stars began to melt and rain down for her, only for her.

 

 

IV

 

Swan paced idly through the trampled down grass, breathing in the heady scent of steel and earth and weed. K's latest substance party was in full swing. He tilted his head back to stare into the sky, watching the stars wheel and dance as if they wanted to join in. Perhaps they already had. It was easy to believe anything when K was at the wheel.

Kavinsky was standing on a platform they'd thrown together last summer, gold chain thumping against an oversized t-shirt. It bore the wrinkled image of a rapper he probably couldn't identify, his sweatpants hanging off his hips. He shouted nonsense into a microphone, at least half of it in Bulgarian, while someone Swan didn't know worked a laptop and a soundboard. Kavinsky raised the fist holding the mic above a seething mass of ultraviolet body paint, wilted flower crowns and every sort of glow-in-the-dark party favor. They cheered, they howled, they begged for more. He threw a handful of pills into the crowd and they fought over them like animals.

Swan shook his head. He recalled being among them, though his memories were mostly patchy and incomplete, a blur of bonfires and glow sticks and kisses from strangers. There had only been one morning after that he couldn't forget. He remembered a dark haired girl painting his face like a skeleton before the rest of the night faded into a haze of X and vodka and God only knew what else. He'd woken up in the empty field alone, and walked about five miles toward Henrietta proper before a car slowed down beside him. It was sleek and orange without a brand logo, and when the tinted passenger side window rolled down Swan had to squint to see the driver. He leaned over the console and worked the door handle, popping out the door from a nearly invisible seam.

“You look like you could use a ride,” the stranger said, taking off a pair of oversized sunglasses. He was, quite possibly, the most breathtaking boy Swan had ever seen. He blinked, suddenly conscious of his ripped t-shirt and muddy jeans. “Don't worry about it,” the boy said. “This car's seen worse.” Swan stopped trying to sort out if he should be offended or not and climbed inside. It was cool and dark, like a movie theater just before the show. He sank back against the seat, running his fingers over the AC vents.

“Name's Jiang,” the driver said, shifting the car into gear.

“Swan,” he answered, watching his long fingers wrap around the knob. “You're not local,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily. “I haven't seen you at Aglionby, have I -?

“I don't know,” Jiang replied. “I've seen you.” He smiled, and Swan's stomach did a strange and frightening thing. “Usually with less make-up, though.” He reached out and wiped a smudge of white paint from Swan's cheek. He laughed, and Swan couldn't help but laugh with him, knowing he looked a wreck. No one in their right mind would have stopped to pick him up today. It made him wonder uneasily at his luck.

Jiang drove straight to the school, proving his idiot suspicions wrong. By the time Jiang dropped him off at his dormitory, Swan had regained enough control over his mouth to say thanks, though something warm and ticklish still rolled around in his stomach. “See you around sometime?” Jiang asked, and Swan just nodded dumbly before he pulled back out with a roar.

Only 15 minutes and he was well and truly fucked.

 

It felt like a million years had passed since that morning, but it had really only been a semester. Tonight he walked the perimeter of the festivities, content to watch from afar. A girl stumbled onto his path and he caught her by the shoulders, pulling her upright. Her pupils could have swallowed the moon. “You're pretty,” she said with a laugh, stumbling backwards. “So are you, beautiful,” he lied, gently turning her back around to dance off the rest of whatever burned through her veins.

He spotted Jiang leaning against the wall of an ancient wooden building, as if taking refuge from the spotlight he usually craved. The fairgrounds had first been carved out of the land in the '20s, each successive generation adding new architectural styles to the melange. This was one of the original ticket booths, advertising an entry fee of only 5 cents to see the wonders behind the curtain. Tiny scrolls of dingy white paint flaked and curled beneath Jiang's restive fingers. Swan wanted to still them but he refrained, instead moving to lean against the wall by his side.

“Hell of a party,” he offered into the raging noise.

“It always is,” Jiang replied. Swan reached into his back pocket for a pack of cigarettes, holding it out to Jiang. He shook his head. Swan bent forward around the cig, one hand cupped around it as he set it alight. He took a deep drag and leaned back against the rotting wood. He would quit when he graduated. It only required willpower, and he possessed that in spades. He wouldn't be here, otherwise. He took good care to keep his full ride to Aglionby a secret, but K knew. Somehow, K always knew what you kept close to your chest.

Back on the stage, Kavinsky paced back and forth, shouting profanities in Bulgarian while his DJ served up Ukrainian hard house. The juxtaposition made Swan's brain squirm. K looked ridiculous, his hat cocked to one side, a ring with a giant skull on one hand. It was the worst sort of endearing.

He's just new money, Swan thought to himself. Reckless, blasé. New money could be responsible for worse things than having no money at all. He didn't believe for a second that Kavinsky had killed his father, but he was likely to kill his mother before long. Swan wondered if he would mourn the loss.

“I'm surprised you let someone else handle the music,” Swan said, turning his head to watch Jiang's face in the changing light. “I've never actually seen the headphones come off before the party dies.”

“Just not feeling it tonight,” Jiang said in response with a rough shake of his head. Swan wondered what he was feeling instead, and if his presence would help or hinder. His fascination wasn't a secret, but Jiang rarely seemed interested in return. He'd kissed him once, in the hot tub, steam rising around them like a curtain. Jiang's skin was warm and wet, his mouth like a furnace against Swan's lips. But Jiang had also been rolling on God only knew what, and Swan refused to take advantage. Much. He wasn't K, that wasn't how he wanted this to go down.

He heard a crash and a horrible squeal before the bass line swallowed up the sound. The demo derby must have started. Sometimes Swan was amazed that no one had actually killed themselves for Kavinsky. Jiang honed in on the sound, his head inclined, glassy eyes narrowed. That, Swan thought, was the last thing they needed tonight. There was a palpable edge in the way Jiang stood, his body sharpened and ready to strike.

“Race me,” Swan said, replacing the need in his voice with casual disinterest. It was a suggestion, not a command. But Jiang turned back around, a strange and secretive smile on his lips. He recognized the redirection for what it was, but indulgently played along. A lanky dart of hair fell directly in his eyes, and Swan fought the impulse to tuck it behind Jiang's ear. Swan had wanted him for so long he'd forgotten what it was not to want.

“Yeah, ok.” Jiang said, shaking the hair from his face. His eyes raked down Swan's body and back up. Swan swallowed. “Why not?”

“Because you know you're going to lose?” Swan said smoothly, cocking his head to the side. He dropped the cigarette, grinding out the ember with one foot.

“You wish,” Jiang tossed back, already sprinting in the direction of their cars. Jiang's obscenely green racer had once been an amped up Jetta, or possibly a WRT. Swan honestly couldn't tell. K called it Frankenstein, and when Swan had corrected him, K just blew smoke in his face and told him to fuck off. He had. K could stay ignorant for all he cared.

Swan reached the helter skelter line of vehicles and ran a hand lightly along the blocky lines of Jiang's ride. It was a wonder of aftermarket engineering, and he swore not a single part had been dreamed. Swan doubted that, but he understood the lie. A line of Chinese characters marched across the side, and every time someone asked what they meant Jiang had another answer ready. Swan had tried to look it up, but he was useless with foreign alphabets. He prided himself on his skill with Latin, though he wasn't quite sure when he would ever use it.

He knew Spanish and a smattering of French from growing up in the borderlands of Brooklyn. The city taught him how to run; his brother, home on leave, taught him how to fight. His best friend, in juvie for possessing a substance he'd never used, taught him to never get stopped by the police.

Of all the places he'd tried to leave behind, Swan still managed to end up in Brighton Beach. The irony was not lost on him.

Jiang levered the door open, careful not to bang it against Skov's Fairlady Z. She drove in the demo, but not with this car. Never with this car. The yellow paint job was ugly and perfect and she loved it almost as much as she loved Kavinsky. She'd never admit to the last, but they all loved him in their own way. Even Swan. He spoke a tired philosophy, whispering in confidence that it was better to keep ones enemies close, but the truth was simple. He was here because he wanted to be.

One of the lamps above sparked, battling a short, and a gleaming filament landed on the Evo's hood. Swan watched it melt a spot in the wax and didn't interfere.

He slid behind the wheel of his Supra, gleaming in red and black beneath the smoldering halogen lights. He hadn't put many modifications into it; it already drove like a dream. He'd never had a car before Aglionby. He'd driven his grandmother for chemo once a week in the family LeSabre, a faded grey-gold, the interior as pockmarked as the paint job. It was older than he was and cranky to start, but at least it still ran. Sitting behind the wheel of his own car felt like an incredible luxury. He would have been happy with anything, but K dreamed piles of cash for them and just once, Swan had taken it.

He listened to the purr of the engine as it woke, revved it a few times to make Jiang laugh. They pulled out onto the strip side by side, dark windows down. Swan cut the thick, humid night with the gleam of his headlights, but Jiang didn't turn his on. Swan rolled his eyes. It was already dangerous, but trust Jiang to find a way to make it better.

He leaned over the center console and held up three fingers, then two, then one. The hybrid burst out of the gate, leaving a cloud of dust and gravel in its wake. Swan took the gears up easy, knowing he could let Jiang win. He could, but he wouldn't. He pulled up beside him, keeping neck and neck, eyes more focused on Jiang than the drag strip. He smiled and floored the gas, bursting past fourth and into high gear with only a slight hang in speed. The end of the track came up sharply, a cluster of brick buildings looming in the shadows beyond the white sodium glow. He downshifted and let up the on clutch, yanking the parking brake. A flick of his wrist on the wheel and the Supra pulled 180 degrees, digging deep lines in the hard-packed earth to land nose to nose with Jiang's pride and joy.

For a moment he thought they might collide, but Jiang backed off just in time and spun his wheels, mere inches from Swan. A rush of adrenaline filled him, the tang of metal on his tongue, and he grabbed the top of the car to pull himself out through the window. It wasn't exactly easy in a Supra, but it looked impressive and he'd spent nearly a week learning to do it without scrapes and bruises. Jiang was already out of his car, pacing back and forth and pulling at his hair.

He was dangerous like this, a car crash, a hurricane, but Swan knew how to brace for impact. “I hate losing to you, man,” he shouted as Swan closed the distance.

“So get better,” Swan replied, stopping inches from Jiang and pushing him back with a hand on his chest. Once wasn't enough, and he did it again, Jiang's back hitting the car. The engine cooled noisily, sputtering and clanking out defeat. Jiang's eyes wouldn't meet his, focusing on the ground, the trees, the pale waning moon – and then on Swan's lips. That was all the permission he needed.

Swan slid his hand up Jiang's neck and squeezed, his thumb moving across Jiang's mouth. He made a soft noise before Swan leaned in to kiss him, quick and full, leaving no room for argument. Jiang's arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Swan heard the gunpowder ruckus of fireworks overhead, but they were nothing compared to the lights flashing behind his eyes, the sparks singing through his blood. He wished it meant as much to Jiang. He knew it didn't.

He left Jiang's lips with a quiet sigh, kissing his jaw and sliding his teeth down his earlobe. Jiang's breath hitched. Swan pressed his cheek to the side of Jiang's neck, resting briefly against his shoulder. Jiang held him there with one hand, the other skimming along his spine. Swan could feel the electricity in Jiang's touch and it raced through him like lightning. Swan only borrowed the storm in his blood, while for Jiang, it almost never let up.

“You wanna leave early?” Jiang asked softly and Swan blinked, certain he hadn't heard correctly. “The house will be empty,” he added suggestively, hands in restless motion across Swan's back.

“Yeah,” Swan breathed after a tense moment. “First one there gets – fuck, I don't know.” His voice was hoarse, the words leaping from his mouth before he could hold them back. “Just get there.” He spoke the words against Jiang's skin like a prayer, fleeting and uncertain.

Jiang relaxed his hold and Swan looked up at him, eyes searching his face. He meant it. He really meant it. He knew Jiang would have enough time for the rush to leave him before reaching K's winding maze of a house, but he pushed the thought aside. If Jiang decided differently, he'd be disappointed – hell, worse than that. He knew this was an idiot move, knew better than to get his hopes up, but God, what if it was real?

It would be better than any dream. Swan kissed him again, because he could, pushing Jiang back against the metal one last time for emphasis. He glanced back once on the way to the driver's side, fumbling the keys in his hand. Jiang watched, a slow smile lighting his face before ducking into Frankenstein and slammed the door. He backed up and spun the car around, this time switching on his lights.

Swan took steady breaths, gripping the padded wheel tight. He eased out of first and floored the gas, tearing off the track with a burst of wild courage. If he only got to have one thing without K's influence, one single shining moment, this was the one he wanted most.

The lights in the house were off when Swan pulled into the drive. He let the engine cool for 30 minutes, a hollow feeling growing in his chest. When Jiang finally pulled up, he waited for him to get out first before walking around the Supra and leaning against it. He reached for Jiang's hand, but he shoved them both in his pockets.

“Are you coming inside?” Swan asked, already knowing the answer.

“I'm sorry, man,” Jiang said, scuffing his feet on the cement. “I figured you'd be gone by now.” He looked everywhere that wasn't Swan. “I'm sorry, I just – I can't.”

“Don't apologize,” Swan said after taking a deep breath. His lungs felt empty, collapsed. “You don't ever need to be sorry for that.”

Jiang looked up, surprised. “You're not mad?” he asked, confused.

Swan shook his head, staring over Jiang's shoulder at the treeline. He hoped Jiang understood that disappointed wasn't the same as angry. In a lot of ways, it was worse. Anger faded, but the acid in his stomach had only just started eating away at his confidence. Swan knew Jiang's moods shifted with the wind; even when he was high as a kite, Swan was always waiting for the inevitable crash. Kavinsky wasn't good for him, always egging him on, seeing how far that tense wire would stretch, but Swan knew Jiang would never leave. He lived for the adrenaline, for each new high, and he wouldn't stop until it killed him.

Swan couldn't help it – he put one hand out against Jiang's chest, his fingers splayed. Swan could feel his heartbeat like a frightened animal beneath his palm. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe some other time?”

“Yeah,” Jiang said, but it sounded like the opposite.

Swan drove back to his dormitory and drank most of a bottle of gin, the cheap stuff, before falling asleep in his clothes. If he didn't stop by K's place for a few days, well, he figured no one would notice anyway. He tried to remember why he was here, the four year plan before the next four year plan, and getting out of Henrietta for good. He wasn't going home; he'd never go home, but one day he would leave Henrietta and be grateful to see the faded welcome sign in his rear view mirror.

 

 

V

 Prokopenko remembered everything.

He remembered lounging on the couch last night, drinking straight from the bottle when Skov grabbed K's hand and led him upstairs. After a while he followed and stood in the open doorway, leaning against the frame while he finished his cigarette. He couldn't stay away; couldn't stand to have Kavinsky out of his sight. He watched until Skov squirmed and shivered in a patch of light from the hallway, arching her back. K lay beneath her, muscles tensed, his fingers strategically placed on sweat-soaked skin. Skov was rarely naked, preferring to control what she showed as it suited her, but this time he saw the entire picture. When she'd first showed up in town, Proko had asked K if he'd dreamed her.

He hadn't.

She slowly straightened up from her inverse curve and fell forward, curling against K's chest. Proko wondered if she had joints at all. Skov turned her head and offered him a sweet, shy smile. She stretched out her hand, wiggling her fingers, and Proko stepped into the room, crushing his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. He stood beside the bed, looking down at K, waiting for the rest of the invitation.

Skov slid off him and knelt in front of Proko on the mattress. Sliding her hands beneath his oversized shirt, she lifted the material until he pulled it over his head. She kissed him in the middle of his chest and something in him unwound. "Lena," he whispered, aware in every spiked nerve ending that she punched anyone else who dared call her that. He wrapped her hair around his fingers and bent to kiss her on the forehead. He glanced down at K.

Kavinsky was watching him, the thin light bleeding into the room obscuring his expression. Before Proko could shape the words “Can I -?” K grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the bed. Skov stroked his back while K's free hand popped the button on his jeans and slid the zipper down. Proko pushed his pants down over his hips and kicked them the rest of the way off. K's hands were everywhere, pulling him close, his mouth tracing a silent litany of sins down his neck as if asking for forgiveness.

This was K's apology, and Proko wanted to feel every word.

He shifted his weight and stilled K's restless hands, pulling them over his head and pinning him there. He deserved this, needed control, even if he only got one chance. K let him with only a minor struggle, when Proko had expected a fight. Maybe he wanted a fight. He couldn't tell. He felt like he deserved one, but K's eyes just begged for more. Proko didn't care what he'd taken, how much he'd had to drink. They were all wasted in one way or another.

He kissed K like like he wanted to possess him, and K kissed back like he was drowning. He arched his back, pressing his naked skin to Proko's at the perfect angle. He tugged at the waistband of his boxers, but K got there first and shoved them away. K's hips moved thrust against him, hard and needy and it hadn't escaped Proko's notice that Skov had left him wanting after taking her own pleasure. Proko slid down Kavinsky's body, struggling to hold his wrists in one hand and failing. He nipped and sucked at K's nipples, drawing forth a moan from that perfect mouth. He kissed his way down K's torso, his mouth open and wet, tongue flicking out to trace every line, every indentation. K's body was stretched tight beneath him, and Proko trailed his fingers down his sides. K shivered. He reached K's hips and lingered there, licking at the hollow between his hips and his straining cock.

“God, Proko -” K gasped. “Just, just, _please_.”

“Please what?” Proko hummed against his skin, lips moving ever closer toward their intended target.

“Make him ask for it,” Skov said, a catch in her throat. Proko looked up, hip lips barely touching the wet tip of Kavinsky's cock.

“Suck me off,” K said, the sound more gravel against his teeth then words.

Proko wrapped one hand around K's cock and stroked lazily, his lips dipping to cover the soft and swollen head. Skov scooted closer and watched, fingers lazily stroking Proko's hair until the gel wore down and it fell into his eyes. K's breaths came shallow and desperate, a whine building up in his throat. Proko took him in deeper and sucked hard, dragging a cry from bruised lips. His hand worked ceaselessly as he pulled back and swallowed him down, tongue flicking lightly against the frenulum for maximum effect. K's head snapped back, his hips thrusting into Proko's mouth, and he held K down with one strong hand on his hip. He was shaking, wordlessly begging for release, and Proko loved every second of it.

He pumped his hand harder, his grip tighter, and swirled his tongue around the tip. K ran out of English words, his hurling curses at Proko in Bulgarian and broken Ukrainian. Proko laughed at his mistakes. “Fuck you,” Kavinsky spat, and Proko just smiled.

“Not this time,” he said, pulling up on K's cock and dragging his teeth across the head. The taste of salt and something indefinably familiar filled his mouth as K shuddered through his release, hips crashing against Proko's face. He stroked K through it, taking it down, taking it all down, before rolling over onto his back. Kavinsky watched him through half-lidded eyes before wiping a hand down his face.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and then louder. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Skov settled against his right side, wrapping an arm around his sweaty torso. She kissed her way up to his neck and he wrapped one hand around her tight. Proko rolled over onto his side facing Kavinsky with one eyebrow raised. K pulled reached out and dragged him back in, letting their legs tangle together, Proko's head pillowed against his shoulder.

K let him do whatever else he wanted that night, even things that had always been held just out of reach. They laid there for hours, the three of them, until dawn broke and Skov climbed out, digging around in the room for her clothes. She'd stopped in the doorway and looked back, smiling at the picture of them wrapped around each other. Skov blended confidence and control with a euphoric, child-like happiness, and Proko had never met anyone quite like her.

Of course, there was no one in the world like K, either. He wondered, sometimes, if their fathers had intended this strange partnership, guard and guarded, to go on after they'd left school. It didn't matter; Proko knew where he belonged. He would never leave K, no matter what. No matter what.

 

He tried not to remember the copies laid out on the sickeningly busy carpet as if they were nothing. Cast offs. Just so much garbage to be discarded. Did Kavinsky really think so little of him to imagine he wouldn't see? He'd seen, and choked down a rush of bile at the realization. But he hadn't eaten anything, he'd never eaten anything, and there was nothing to bring up.

He remembered the gun, of course. It was K's new favorite dream, chrome polished to within an inch of its life. A stylized letter K in gold added traction to the grip. If it hadn't been K's creation, that letter would eventually warp and tarnish, but this gun would live forever. It was perfectly silent, except the slight click of the trigger. He knew, because he'd heard it five times.

 

He remembered meeting Swan. The boy had always been on their periphery, showing up to parties but never missing class. Proko rarely missed class either, because K usually couldn't be bothered and someone had to pay attention. They'd shared a joint behind the gymnasium one day, Proko feeling him out for potential threats. He was striking rather than handsome, tightly curled hair shaved on the sides below a flat top. He wore black Converse and a fitted military style jacket with everything, gleaming brass buttons to one side, epaulettes darting the shoulders. Swan always kept the collar turned up sharply as if to hold the world at bay.

He spoke their language like a native to privilege, though Proko knew he wasn't. He had people to track these sorts of things down. He admired Swan's persistence, his cleverness. Proko never felt particularly clever. Intelligence and wiles were two separate things, and he was content to be just smart enough to keep K safe.

Swan was quiet, a tightly coiled spring. Proko decided he would be excellent in a fight, and it wasn't long before circumstance proved him right. He'd missed the signs until it was too late, and two Jersey toughs got the drop on him. If Swan hadn't been there, he probably would have been shot. He couldn't stand guard if he was bleeding out on the pavement, and Proko was grateful. They sent the muscle packing, the slower of the pair with Swan's blade broken off just under his fifth rib. He'd missed by one.

That Swan had been perfectly willing to kill for them did not go unnoticed. He took a swift nosedive into their group after that, falling into step as if he'd always been there. Proko taught him the finer points of racing on their discarded junkers, cars he couldn't fuck up anymore than they were already. Swan was a fast learner, and Proko couldn't help but feel proud when he graduated to a ride of his own.

 

He would never forget the day Kavinsky met Ronan Lynch. Proko hated him on sight. Recognized something in him, maybe, and that was enough. He could keep K away from him in school, but not on the streets. He thanked God daily that Lynch never came to Fourth of July. He'd burn them both down, Proko was sure of it.

 

He remembered Jiang, though Proko honestly couldn't say when exactly he'd started hanging around. It felt like he'd always been there. He'd disappear for days at a time, then show up with boxes of steaming hot doughnuts and top shelf vodka. When Jiang was fast, nothing could slow him down, but it was in his calmer moments that Proko liked him the best. Skov never took him seriously. K liked anyone who was on board for a party, and Jiang lived like there was no tomorrow.

Swan – well, with Swan it was different. Proko saw it and knew it was a ticking time bomb, but what could he do? K would never exile either of them from his inner circle. Truth be told, Proko would miss them fiercely if either one left. He liked their clique just the way it was. He watched their kinetic push and pull, knew they'd rather be fucking than fighting, but Jiang resisted all attempts at getting under his skin. Swan wasn't the first to try, and Proko knew he wouldn't be the last. Futile or not, Swan was always the one to talk Jiang down from the roof.

They were symbiotic organisms, and Proko wanted it to last forever.

 

He still remembered their first day at Aglionby, how K showed up late, his dress shirt casually wrinkled. Proko had gone back to his room to loan K a sweater. He didn't understand how screwed he'd be if they kicked him out. He wasn't a king here, there were rules.

Proko remembered finding out just how wrong he was.

He remembered well the day his father discovered that Anton Kavinsky was sending his bastard son down the river. He remembered Stanislav calling him into his study and offering him a freshly cut cigar. He'd known his family was in deep to Anton, but he'd never realized just quite how far that debt extended. “Constantin, my boy,” he said with a deep rumble in his chest. “I know you won't disappoint me.”

He hadn't, or at least he imagined so. No one had ever shown up to kill _him_. His guardianship of Joseph Kavinsky was like an arranged marriage in many ways, and he accepted it on the same terms. It seemed fated when K kissed him for the first time. Proko couldn't resist kissing him back.

Clearest of all, he remembered meeting K one day on the pier when he was nine. The air was cold and crisp, all the tourists gone for the season. He sat on the edge of the boardwalk overlooking a stretch of shallow water, his feet dangling in the air. Proko could tell something was clasped in his hands, something fragile, his fingers wrapped around it carefully. He sat down next to him and asked if he could see.

The boy had opened his hands to reveal a butterfly made of tiny, cut glass gems. A brooch, Proko thought. His mother had one like it. Then it moved its wings, and the boy laughed. He lifted his palm and the butterfly flew away, jeweled wings glinting in the sun.

“My name's Joey,” he said, holding out the same hand in a carefree offer. “What's yours?”

“Stan,” he replied, taking the boy's hand in both of his and shaking it the way he'd seen his father do. Joey had raised an eyebrow at him and they'd both laughed themselves sick. Proko was sure the sun had never shined that bright again, but it didn't matter. He still had that day, when they'd linked arms and sworn in front of God and everyone that they'd never grow old.

 

VI

 

Skov saw the explosion in her rear view mirror. She slammed on the brakes, throwing herself forward against the wheel. The force of the sudden stop sent a shuddering groan through the metal as the car shuddered from in-the-red to zero. The probable loss of the transmission was nothing as her world narrowed to a single point. The scent of steel and ash filled the air. Skov threw open the driver's side door and hurled herself from the Nissan, falling to her knees on the barren track. A cloud of dust surrounded her as she stumbled to her feet and ran, arms stretched out before her as if to seize the noxious air and make time take it back, take it all back.

The blaze died down and Skov saw him, unmarred. For a moment, she thought – but no. He crumpled like a doll before her, a god suddenly become man. A scream built up in her belly and fired out her mouth like a shot. Kavinsky slid off the metal and fell to the ground with a horrible, wet sound, his eyes closed, his fingers limp. Those hands that had always been in motion. Those hands that had touched her, held her, made her gasp and made her bleed. Those hands would never do any of those things again.

She reached his side and wrapped her arms around his lifeless frame, hot tears singeing her cheeks and falling onto his skin. Her vision wavered. “This is your fault!” she shouted at Ronan who stood motionless, his hands shaking where they held his brother close. Those hands would continue to move. Those hands would live to hold, to caress, to hurt. “You did this!”

“No,” Ronan said. “I really didn't.” He shook his head and stared at Kavinsky in shock, biting down on his lip, hard. One of his hands curled into a fist.

“He didn't want to die!” Skov countered, her voice raw. “He wasn't like this before you.” She spat out the last word as if it were a truth she couldn't swallow.

Jiang pulled up short beside the car, his eyes wide and empty. He looked down at Skov where she crouched in the dirt, filthy and immobile. It was a Pieta; it wasn't real. In her arms, K looked small and serene. He was never small. He had never been serene. Jiang's face moved through a pantomime of disbelief and anger. He turned to look for Prokopenko, spinning around in a circle before his eyes landed on the heap of his car, crashed halfway through one of the buildings. At least it was one of the older ones, Jiang thought. There was still a chance.

“Dream him back,” Skov said quietly, stroking Kavinsky's cheek. “I know you can do it.”

“I can't,” Ronan replied. “I can't dream a dreamer, that's not how it works.”

“Then dream him without it!” she growled, her fingers catching on Kavinsky's oily hair and pulling his head to the side. “Just dream him _back_.” Skov let out a halting, mewlish sound as she leaned over the body in her arms, rocking back and forth.

“Then he really would want to die,” Ronan said grimly, releasing his hold on his brother. Matthew turned to look at the scene, his face a mirror of grief. He hadn't even known Kavinsky, not really, but somehow he found the fortitude to weather sorrow on another's behalf. Jiang stared at him, certainty pooling in his gut. K had been right; the boy was a dream thing. He had been conjured and brought to life like a golem. Those stories, Jiang knew, never ended well.

He knelt beside Skov and wordlessly took Kavinsky from her arms as she disentangled herself from his limbs. “Where's Proko?” she asked, and Jiang looked at the ground. With a screech, Skov launched herself at Ronan, covering the distance before Jiang had a chance to think, much less act. “You owe me!” she cried. “You owe us, all of us! Just do it!”

Ronan stepped back twice as she advanced, clawing at his face, his throat. He raised his arms to defend, palms open, keeping her at bay. He heard Matthew call out to him as if from another room; he heard the snick of metal against metal advance from behind. Blue. The switchblade. _Shit_. His focus wavered for an instant and Skov took immediate advantage, landing a solid blow to his gut. Ronan took the hit and pushed back with a grunt, grabbing her left wrist and twisting it hard. Skov gave a cry of pain before plunging her knee into his groin. He did cave, then, and her next blow snapped Ronan's head back, blood streaming from his nose.

“Stop!” Jiang yelled, but Skov's voice rose to cover his.

“You had to come along and change everything,” she said. “He had us, he never needed you! Now he's gone, and you're still here.” It was a powerful indictment, and Ronan sagged, all the fight seeping out of him. He pressed a finger to his nose and held it out before him, watching the blood fall heavily to the ground.

“Maybe I don't deserve to be,” he said quietly. Jiang moved up to pull Skov's arms behind her back, pinning her against his larger frame. She hissed and spat, twisting in his grip. Swan joined them like a shadow, slinking up beside Jiang and Skov without a sound. He stared at the body on the ground, curiously unmarred but certainly dead.

“It's not about who deserves to live and who doesn't,” Swan said. “It's about who's still alive.” He caught Jiang's eye and held it with a meaningful gaze. Either one of the dream monstrosities could have easily taken them out, and yet here they were, still breathing.

Skov choked out a wet cry, her shoulders, her hands, still twitching like a mouse in a trap. “They can't leave us,” she said, her voice disbelieving as the weight of finality settled in her chest. “Not K and Proko too, they – they can't!” She turned and buried her face in Jiang's t-shirt, his arms dropping their hold as he pressed her to his chest. Great wringing sobs wracked her body until she simply shook, her breathing shallow. Swan knew she wasn't the only one in shock.

“About Prokopenko,” Swan said, his voice flat. “What's going to happen to him?” Jiang looked at him, fearful and uncomprehending.

“I don't know,” Ronan confessed. “I'm sorry.”

“Let me know when you do.” Swan's tone carried an undercurrent of menace. He glanced down at Blue, who still glared at the group of them with fierce determination. Gansey, their head boy, the god in their world, stood back from the conflict, hesitant and uncertain. Gods weren't afraid of anything, Swan thought. Gods held the world on a string.

Their god was dead.

 

He stretched out a hand to Jiang, who stared at it as if afraid it might bite. They'd fought that morning, the same old words but heated and sharp, and Kavinsky had broken it up. He had a hangover. They were too loud. After a moment Jiang took the hand extended, holding on as if he never meant to let go. Ronan turned to Blue and covered the hand that held the knife with his own, wordlessly urging it closed. She stared past him at Kavinsky's body, her own shock and fear beginning to show. He had just been alive, furiously, unbelievably alive, and now he lay on the ground unmoving.

“Ronan. ” Gansey spoke from behind them. “Jane. Let's go.” They did, Ronan settling his hand on Matthew's shoulder like a weight.

Swan thought leaving became them, watching their figures grow smaller and smaller in their retreat. He didn't say it. He didn't have to say it. Jiang knew, and Skov would understand in time. They still had each other, which was a wonder unto itself. They'd get Proko back. Swan would make sure of it, even if he had to kill Lynch to do it.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Skov asked quietly, her fingers gripping Jiang's powder blue t-shirt for life.

“Detox,” Swan answered, the word as heavy as a stone in his mouth. He wrapped his arms around the two of them and no one moved for a very long time.

 

 

**+**

 

Jiang shifted in the uncomfortable chair, circulation returning to his numb right foot. The pins and needles made him wince. The display on his phone read 5:42 am. All hospitals smelled the same, antiseptic and latex mingled with other people's sweat. It reminded him uncomfortably of another ward, one with bars over the windows. Jiang thought he could go his entire life without ever sleeping in a hospital again.

In the narrow, elevated bed, Prokopenko slept on, oblivious to his honor guard. The doctors had run out of tests. Jiang was relieved; urine and blood and bone marrow all came back with puzzling and contradictory results. If Proko's family hadn't made quite the impression on their only visit, Jiang thought the staff might have written journal articles about him. That would have been disastrous.

On the other side of the bed, Skov rested her head against Proko's legs and slept. Her chair was tilted precariously forward, but Jiang didn't want to risk waking her up by shifting it. She rarely slept at all these days, her waking hours venomous and cruel.

Jiang straightened up at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall outside. He knew the doctors on rotation by heart, but these were unfamiliar. Swan's footsteps followed close behind – probably showing up to drag Jiang back home. Swan loved Proko too, but as the months stretched on, he's mostly given up the hope that he might return to them. He was too pragmatic to see the point in their endless vigil.

Jiang and Skov weren't foolish. They knew he might never wake up. But they missed him, they needed him, and it was respect that drew them here, night after night.

Jiang heard Swan's voice, but only the anger carried through the thick hospital walls, his words lost. Another voice fired back, one Jiang recognized with a frown. Lynch.

“ - done enough damage?” Jiang heard half of a question as the door creaked slowly open. “You're a fucking wrecking ball, you piece of shit.” Lynch took a hesitant step inside, glancing first at him, and then at Skov. He didn't look at Prokopenko. He looked as exhausted as Jiang felt, deep shadows beneath his eyes. Lynch clutched something tightly in one hand and shifted his weight back and forth on the puke green linoleum. Jiang realized he was nervous.

One for the history books.

He stepped closer as Skov lifted her head. Her lips twisted into a sneer. “Don't you know there's no dogs allowed in hospital?” she said.

Lynch's eyes narrowed into reptilian slits. “This dog has something you might want to see,” he countered. He opened his palm and revealed a gold medallion on a box chain, lights from the machines turning it red and green and blue. He held it out to Skov and she leaned back, loathe to touch him.

“Put it around his neck,” Lynch said glancing over at Proko for the first time. “If I did – if it works, it should wake him up.”

Swan hovered in the doorway. “And if it doesn't?” he asked, an unspoken threat behind his words.

“Then I'll just try again,” Lynch said, dropping his head. His shoulders slumped, and Swan wondered if he slept at all. Kavinsky never did.

Swan crossed the linoleum and plucked it from his hand, inspecting it before handing it to Skov. “Saint Bosco?” he asked, sarcasm holding the name together in his mouth. “Starting your own religion now, Lynch?”

“Patron Saint of Dreams,” Lynch said under his breath, almost in a whisper.

Swan nodded once, eyebrows raised in acknowledgment before transferring it to Skov. “Go on,” he urged her. She looked back and forth between them, wary, as if it might be some cruel joke. She snatched it from his fingers like a feral cat, darting away before he could take it back. Skov reached over the bed and stretched her arms around Proko's neck, fumbling with the clasp. When at last it held, she stepped back and watched, waiting. The room inhaled a collective breath.

For a moment it seemed as if the medallion was another failure, just one more thing to add to the junk pile at the Barns. Lynch stared down at the floor, his hands balled into fists. Then the readings on the machines began to shift, minimal sine curves sharpening into tiny mountains and valleys. A soft beeping disrupted the silence. They stared as one while the readings grew stronger.

A nurse darted around the corner, pushing them out of her way. She checked his vitals, timing his pulse. Then she smiled, a shaft of sunlight piercing the pre-dawn gloom. Jiang's heart beat faster in response, and he perched on the edge his chair. The legs lifted off the ground, and Swan slowly pushed the back of the chair down until it rested safely on the floor. Jiang let out a tiny puff of air that almost sounded like a laugh.

Proko's head tilted to one side, and then back to center. The doctors had removed his intubation in August, as he could breathe just fine on his own. A coma wasn't death, but it wasn't much more than an outline of life, either. Now his eyelids flickered and he pulled his chapped lips into his mouth. Lynch stared. Jiang wondered what the odds had to have been for him to risk the trip. A failure at this juncture could well have landed him in the ICU, courtesy of the ka-bar folded in Swan's back pocket. Jiang knew he'd put down anyone who offered them false hope. He'd only said it once, blind drunk on Johnny Walker, but once had been enough.

Proko made a small noise, as if clearing the dust from his throat. Jiang looked back and forth between Swan and Proko and Skov, needing someone to confirm that this moment was real. Swan reached out and tucked a wayward piece of hair behind his ear, a gesture by now familiar and yet still subtly thrilling. A fresh morning breeze blew in through the window and rattled the blinds like the hungry ghosts Skov warned them about. The nurse kept opening it every time Skov slammed it shut, something about the soul escaping in the night, and the boys knew better than to argue with her superstition.

This morning was somehow different. The breeze lifted Skov's hair off her neck and left gooseflesh in its wake. It smelled like rain and moss and leaves rotting in the gutter. Nothing was perfect, Jiang supposed. He looked up at Swan, ever the Stoic. He'd been keeping his hopes pushed down for so long, Jiang wasn't sure he knew how to let them out again. Skov clutched Proko's right hand in both of hers, while Jiang squeezed his left. Swan held Jiang's hand; they held their breath.

 

Prokopenko opened his eyes, and all he could see was light.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _Monna Innominata_ , by Christina Rosetti. Eternal thanks to [ronanschainsaw](http://ronanschainsaw.tumblr.com) for the beta work, and for pointing out all manner of inconsistencies. Any remaining mistakes are mine and you can take them up with me outside, punk.


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